TAOISM AND CONFUCIANISM
FOR THE MOST PART, ancient peoples bothered little about establishing a strict chronology for their history; some even used only symbolic numbers, at least for the most remote epochs, and we would be seriously mistaken in taking these as dates in the ordinary and literal sense of that word. In this respect, however, the Chinese constitute a remarkable exception and are perhaps the only people to have taken constant care, from the very origin of their tradition, to date their annals by means of precise astronomical observations, including the description of the state of the heavens at the moment when the events recorded took place. Thus we can be more definite regarding China and its ancient history than in many other cases, and know that the tradition we may properly call Chinese originated around 3,700 years before the Christian era. By a rather curious coincidence, this same epoch is also the beginning of the Hebrew era, although for this latter it would be difficult to say what event really marks its starting-point.
However remote such an origin may appear when one compares it with that of the Greco-Roman civilization and with the dates of so-called 'classical' antiquity, it is in fact still fairly recent. What was the state of the yellow race, which at that time probably inhabited certain regions of central Asia, before 3,700 вс? In the absence of sufficiently explicit data it is impossible to say with any precision; it seems that for an indeterminate length of time this race went through a period of obscurity, and was roused from this slumber at a moment also marked by changes important for other sectors of
humanity. It is then possible-and indeed is the only thing that can be affirmed outright - that what appears as a beginning may in reality have been the awakening of a much earlier tradition, which, moreover, had to be put in another form at that time to adapt to new conditions. However that may be, the history of China, or of what is so named today, only begins with Fu-Hsi, who is regarded as its first emperor; and it must immediately be added that the name of Fu-Hsi, to which is linked the whole body of sciences that make up the very essence of the Chinese tradition, in reality seems to designate a whole period lasting for several centuries.
To fix the principles of the tradition, Fu-Hsi made use of linear symbols that were both simple and at the same time as synthetic as possible, that is, the continuous line and the broken line, respectively signs of yang and yin, that is, of the two principles, active and passive, which, proceeding from a sort of polarization of the supreme metaphysical Unity, give birth to the whole of universal manifestation. From the combinations of these two signs in all their possible arrangements, are formed the eight kua or 'trigrams', which have always remained the fundamental symbols of the Far-Eastern tradition. It is said that 'before tracing the trigrams, Fu-Hsi looked at the Heaven, then lowered his eyes to the Earth, observed its details, considered the characteristics of the human body and of all external things. [1] This text is especially interesting in that it contains the formal expression of the 'Great Triad': Heaven and Earth, or the two complementary principles from which all beings spring, and man, who, by his nature partaking of both, is the middle term of the triad, the mediator between Heaven and Earth. [2] Here we should specify that we refer to 'true man', that is, he who having reached the full development of his higher faculties 'can assist Heaven and Earth in the maintenance and transformation of beings, and by that very fact constitute a third power along with Heaven and Earth. [3] It is also said that Fu-Hsi saw a dragon emerge from the river, uniting in itself the powers of Heaven and Earth, and bearing the trigrams
inscribed on its back, which is another way of expressing the same thing symbolically.
Thus the whole tradition was first contained essentially and as if in germ in the trigrams, symbols marvelously adapted to serving as support for an indefinitude of possibilities; it only remained to draw from them all the necessary developments, whether in the domain of pure metaphysical knowledge itself, or in its diverse applications to the cosmic and human orders. To this end Fu-Hsi wrote three books, of which only the last, the I Ching, or 'Book of Changes', has survived. The text of this book is so synthetic that it can be understood in many senses, nonetheless perfectly concordant among themselves, according to whether one keeps strictly to the principles themselves or applies them to this or that determinate order. Thus, besides the metaphysical sense, there are a multitude of contingent applications of unequal importance which constitute as many traditional sciences. In this way it can be applied to logic, mathematics, astronomy, physiology, social organization, and so on; and there is even a divinatory application, which, however, is considered the most inferior of all, and the practice of which is left to wandering minstrels. Besides, it is characteristic of all traditional doctrines that from the outset they contain within themselves the possibilities of all conceivable developments, including those of an indefinite variety of sciences of which the modern West has not the slightest idea, and of all the adaptations that might be required by later circumstances. There is thus no cause to be astonished that the teachings contained in the I Ching, which Fu-Hsi himself claimed to have drawn from a past very ancient and difficult to date, should in turn have become the common basis of the two doctrines in which the Chinese tradition has been maintained to the present, and which, by reason of the completely different domains to which they relate, seem at first sight to have no point of contact, namely Taoism and Confucianism.
What were the circumstances that after roughly three thousand years rendered a readaptation of the traditional doctrine necessary, that is to say, a change not in the foundation, which in itself always remained strictly the same, but as it were in the forms into which this doctrine was incorporated? This is another point that it would doubtless be difficult to elucidate fully, for in China and elsewhere
such things scarcely leave a trace in recorded history, where exterior effects are much more apparent than the profound causes. What seems certain in any case is that the doctrine such as it had been formulated in the time of Fu-Hsi had generally ceased to be understood in its most essential aspects; and doubtless, too, the applications which had been drawn from it in the past, especially concerning social matters, no longer corresponded to the racial conditions of existence, which must have been changed perceptibly in the interval.
It was then the sixth century before the Christian era, and it is notable that this century saw considerable change among almost all peoples, so that it would seem that what happened in China at that time should be attributed to a cause, perhaps difficult to define, that affected the whole of terrestrial humanity. What is remarkable is that in a general way the sixth century can be considered as the beginning of the properly 'historical' period. When one goes farther back, it is impossible to establish even an approximate chronology, except in a few exceptional cases, as, for example, precisely that of China. On the other hand, beginning with this epoch, dates of events are everywhere known with a fair degree of accuracy, which is assuredly a fact deserving our attention. Moreover, the changes that took place at the time present different characteristics according to the country. India, for instance, saw the birth of Buddhism, that is, a revolt against the traditional spirit going as far as the negation of all authority, even to veritable anarchy in the intellectual and social orders; [4] in China, on the contrary, the two new doctrinal
forms, which were given the names Taoism and Confucianism, were constituted simultaneously and strictly within the line of tradition.
The founders of these two doctrines, Lao Tzu and Kung Tzu (whom Westerners call Confucius) were thus in fact contemporaries, and history tells us that one day they met:
'Hast thou discovered Tao?' asked Lao Tzu. 'I have sought it twenty-seven years,' replied Kung Tzu 'and I have not yet found it.' Whereupon Lao Tzu gave his visitor these few precepts. 'The sage loves obscurity; he does not throw himself at every comer; he studies times and circumstances. If the moment is propitious, he speaks; otherwise, he keeps silent. Whoever possesses a treasure does not display it before the whole world; in the same way, one who is truly a sage does not unveil his wisdom to the whole world. That is all I have to say to you; make what profit you can out of it!' On returning from this interview Kung Tzu said, 'I have seen Lao Tzu; he is like the dragon. As for the dragon, 1 know not how it can be borne by winds and clouds and raise itself to Heaven.
This anecdote, reported by the historian Ssu-Ma-Chi'en, perfectly delineates the respective positions of the two doctrines, or rather of the two branches of the doctrine, into which the Far-Eastern tradition would henceforth be divided: the one essentially consisting of pure metaphysics, to which are joined all the traditional sciences of which the scope is strictly speaking speculative, or rather 'cognitive'; the other, confined to the practical domain and keeping exclusively to the field of social applications. Kung Tzu himself admitted that he was not at all 'born to Knowledge', that is, that he had not attained to knowledge par excellence, which is that of the metaphysical and supra-rational order; he was acquainted with traditional symbols, but he had not penetrated their deepest meaning. That is why his work was necessarily to be limited to one particular and contingent domain, which alone was within his competence; but at least he was careful not to deny what lay beyond his understanding. His later disciples did not always imitate him in this, and at times some of then exhibited a narrow exclusivism-a defect widespread among 'specialists' of all kinds-and this brought forth various ripostes of
scathing irony on the part of the great Taoist commentators of the fourth century such as Lieh Tzu, and more especially Chuang Tzu. However, it must not be inferred from such disputes that Taoism and Confucianism are rival schools, for this they never were and never could be, since each has its proper and clearly distinct domain. Their co-existence is thus perfectly normal and regular, and in some respects their distinction corresponds fairly exactly to what in other civilizations is that between the spiritual authority and the temporal power.
We have already said, moreover, that the two doctrines share a common root, namely the earlier tradition. Neither Kung Tzu nor Lao Tzu ever intended to expound conceptions of their own, which, as such, would have lacked all authority and any real influence. 'I am a man who has loved the ancients and who has bent all his efforts toward acquiring their sciences,' said Kung Tzu; [5] and this attitude, which is the very opposite of the individualism of modern Westerners with their pretensions to 'originality' at any cost, is the only one compatible with the establishment of a traditional civilization. The word 'readaptation' which we have used before is therefore the one that indeed fits here; and the social institutions that resulted from it were endowed with a remarkable stability, for they lasted twentyfive centuries and survived all the periods of disorder that China underwent until recently. We have no wish to dwell further on these institutions, which moreover are fairly well-known in broad outline; but it is worth recalling that their essential characteristic is to take the family as foundation and from there to extend itself to the race, which is the totality of families belonging to one and the same original stock. One of the special characteristics of the Chinese civilization is in fact that it is founded on the idea of race and the solidarity that unites its members among themselves, whereas other civilizations, which generally include men belonging to diverse or poorlydefined races, rest on completely different principles of unity.
Usually when one speaks in the West of China and its doctrines, it is almost exclusively Confucianism that comes to mind. This is not to say that it is always interpreted correctly, for some make of it a
kind of Eastern 'positivism', whereas in reality it is something totally different, first by reason of its traditional character, and then also because, as we have said, it is an application of superior principles, whereas 'positivism', on the contrary, implies a negation of such principles. As for Taoism, it is generally passed over in silence, and many seem to be ignorant of its very existence, or at any rate to believe that it disappeared long ago and today presents only an historical or archaeological interest. In what follows, we shall see the reasons for this mistake.
Lao Tzu wrote only one treatise, which, moreover, was extremely concise, called the Tao Te Ching or 'Book of the Way and of Rectitude'; all other Taoist texts are either commentaries on this fundamental book or later versions of various complementary teachings that originally had been purely oral. The Tao, which is translated literally as 'Way', and which gave its name to the doctrine itself, is the supreme Principle envisaged from a strictly metaphysical standpoint; it is both the origin and the end of all beings, as is very clearly indicated by the ideographic character that represents it. The Te which we prefer to render as 'Rectitude' rather than 'Virtue', as is sometimes done, so as not to seem to give it a 'moral' meaning that is not at all in keeping with the outlook of Taoism-is what could be called a 'specification' of the Tao with respect to a determinate being, such as the human being for instance; it is the direction which that being must follow in order that its existence in its present state shall be according to the Way, or, in other words, in conformity with the Principle. Thus, at the outset Lao Tzu takes his stand in the universal order and then descends to an application; but although this application is specifically made to the case of man, it is in no way done from a social or moral point of view; what is always and exclusively envisaged is the connection with the Supreme Principle, so that in reality we never leave the metaphysical domain.
Consequently Taoism does not attribute importance to outward action, which it ultimately holds as unimportant, and it expressly teaches the doctrine of 'non-action'. In general, Westerners have some difficulty grasping this doctrine in its true significance, but they could be helped by recalling the Aristotelian theory of the 'unmoved mover' which has essentially the same meaning, but from
which they never seem to have drawn all the consequences. 'Nonaction' is not inertia, but on the contrary implies the fullness of activity, but an activity that is transcendent and altogether interior, non-manifested, in union with the Principle, and thus beyond all the distinctions and appearances that most people mistakenly take for reality itself, whereas they are only more or less distant reflections of it. Moreover, we should also note that Confucianism itself, though its point of view is that of action, nonetheless speaks of the 'invariable middle', that is, of the state of perfect equilibrium shielded from the incessant vicissitudes of the outer world. Now in the case of Confucianism this can only be the expression of a purely theoretical ideal, and in its contingent realm it can at most grasp a mere image of true 'non-action', whereas for Taoism it is a question of something altogether different, namely, a fully effective realization of this transcendent state. Placed at the center of the cosmic wheel, the perfect sage moves it invisibly by his presence alone, without participating in its movement and untroubled by the need to exercise any action whatsoever; his absolute detachment makes him master of all things because he can no longer be affected by anything.
He has attained such perfect impassibility, for him life and death are alike indifferent, and the collapse of the world would move him not at all. By penetration he has reached the Immutable Truth, the Knowledge of the One Universal Principle. He lets all the beings roll on according to their destinies, while himself he keeps to the Immobile Center of all destinies.... The outward sign of this inner state is imperturbability, not that of the warrior who for love of glory swoops down upon an army ranged in battle, but that of the spirit, superior to Heaven, to Earth, and to all beings, who dwells in a body for which he cares not, taking no account of the images perceived by his senses and knowing all, in his immobile unity, by a knowledge all-embracing. This absolutely independent spirit is the master of men; if it pleased him to summon them all together, all would run to his bidding on the day appointed; but he does not care to be served. [6]
If a true sage, much in spite of himself, had to take charge of an empire, keeping himself to non-action, he would make use of the leisure of his non-intervention by giving free rein to his natural propensities. The empire would prosper for having been put in the hands of this man. Without bringing his faculties into play, without using his bodily senses, seated motionless, he would behold all with his transcendent eye; absorbed in contemplation, he would shake all like thunder; the sky would conform obediently to the motions of his spirit; all beings would follow the impulse of his non-intervention, as dust follows the wind. Why should this man seek to guide the empire, when letting it go on is enough? [7]
We have insisted particularly on this doctrine of 'non-action', for besides the fact that it is one of the most important and most characteristic aspects of Taoism, there are other more particular reasons for doing so that will be better understood from what follows. But one question that arises is this: how can one attain the state described as that of the perfect sage? Here, as in all analogous doctrines found in other civilizations, the answer is very clear. One attains it exclusively through knowledge, but this knowledge, which Kung Tzu admitted to never having obtained, is of an order altogether different from ordinary or 'profane' knowledge, and has no connection whatsoever with the exterior learning of the 'scholars', and even less so with science as understood by modern Westerners. This is not a case of incompatibility, although, by reason of the barriers which it sets and of the mental habits it imposes, ordinary science may often be an obstacle to the acquisition of true knowledge; but whoever possesses the latter is bound to hold as negligible the relative and contingent speculations with which most men rest content, the detailed analyses and researches in which they lose themselves, and the many divergent opinions that inevitably result.
Philosophers lose themselves in their speculations, sophists in their distinctions, investigators in their researches. All these men
are caught within the limits of space and blinded by particular beings. [8]
The sage, on the contrary, has passed beyond all the distinctions inherent in external points of view; at the central point where he abides, all opposition has disappeared, having been resolved into a perfect equilibrium.
In the primordial state, these oppositions did not exist. They all derived from the diversity of beings and from their contacts caused by the universal gyration. They would cease, if difference and motion were to cease. They cease at once to affect the being that has reduced his distinct individuality and his particular motion to almost nothing. This being no longer enters into conflict with any other being, for he is established in the infinite, effaced in the indefinite. He has reached the point from which start all transformations, wherein are no conflicts, and there he abides. By concentrating his nature, by nourishing his vital spirit, by bringing together all his powers, he is united to the principle of all births. Inasmuch as his nature is whole, and his vital spirit intact, no being can harm him. [9]
It is for this reason and not from any kind of scepticism, which is obviously excluded by the degree of knowledge he has attained, that the sage keeps himself entirely outside of all discussions that agitate the generality of men; for him, in fact, all contrary opinions are equally valueless, because, by very reason of their opposition, they are all equally relative.
His own viewpoint is one where this and that, yes and no, seem still to be undistinguished. This point is the hinge of the norm; it is the immobile center of a circumference on whose contours all contingencies, distinctions, and individualities roll; whence one sees only one infinity, which is neither this nor that, neither yes nor no. To see everything in as yet undifferentiated primordial unity, or from such a distance that all dissolves into one, is true
intelligence. Let us not busy ourselves with distinguishing, but let us see everything in the unity of the norm. Let us not debate in order to get the better, but let us use, toward others, the method of the monkey-trainer. This man said to the monkeys he was training: 'I will give you three taros in the morning and four in the evening.' But not one of the monkeys was satisfied. 'So be it,' said he, 'I will give you four in the morning and three in the evening.' All the monkeys were satisfied. Thus not only did he satisfy them, but also he gave them only the seven taros a day which he had intended for them in the first place. Thus does the sage; he says yes and no, for the sake of peace, and remains calm at the center of the Universal Wheel, indifferent as to the direction of its turning. [10]
We need hardly say that the state of the perfect sage with all that this implies (which we cannot discuss at length here), cannot be attained at one stroke, and that even the degrees inferior to this state, which are as it were so many preliminary stages, are only accessible at the price of efforts of which very few men are capable. The methods employed to this end by Taoism are, moreover, particularly difficult to follow, and the help they furnish is much more restricted than that found in the traditional teaching of other civilizations such as India, for example; they are in any case almost impracticable for men belonging to races other than that for which they are particularly adapted. Moreover, even in China, Taoism has never been very widespread, nor has it ever sought to be, having always abstained from propagandizing since its very nature imposes this reserve on it; it is a very closed and essentially 'initiatic' doctrine, which as such is destined for an elite only, and could not be propounded to everyone without distinction, for not all are suited to understand it, and still fewer to 'realize' it. It is said that Lao Tzu entrusted his teaching to two disciples only, who themselves instructed ten others; after writing the Tao Te Ching, he disappeared toward the West, doubtless taking refuge in some almost inaccessible retreat in Tibet or the Himalayas, and, says the historian Ssu-Ma-Chi'en, 'no one knows how or where he ended his days.'
The doctrine common to all, and which everyone must study and put into practice according to his capacity, is Confucianism, which, embracing everything to do with social relations, is fully sufficient for the needs of ordinary life. However, since Taoism represents principial knowledge from which all the rest derives, in a way Confucianism is really only an application thereof to a contingent order and is by right subordinate by its very nature; but this is something that need not concern the masses and that they may not even suspect since only the practical application falls within their intellectual horizon; and the masses we speak of certainly include the great majority of Confucian 'scholars' themselves. All questions of form aside, this de facto separation between Taoism and Confucianism, between the inner and the outer doctrine, constitute one of the most notable differences between the civilizations of China and India; the latter has only one body of unified doctrine, namely Brahmānism, which includes both the principle and all its applications, so that there is no break in continuity from the lowest to the highest degrees. To a great extent this difference reflects the mental conditions of the two peoples; however, it is very probable that the continuity that has been maintained in India, and no doubt in India alone, also formerly existed in China, from the epoch of Fu-Hsi up to that of Lao Tzu and Kung Tzu.
It is now clear why Taoism is so little known to Westerners; outwardly it is unlike Confucianism, which has visible effects on all circumstances of social life; rather it is the exclusive attribute of an elite perhaps fewer in number today than ever before, which in no way seeks to communicate to outsiders the doctrine of which it is the guardian; finally, its very point of view, its mode of expression, and its methods of teaching are as foreign as possible to the spirit of the modern West. Some people, while aware of the existence of Taoism and admitting that it is still living, nevertheless imagine that its influence on the whole of Chinese civilization is practically negligible, if not altogether null, because of its closed character; this again is a grave error, and it now remains for us to explain the true situation as far as possible.
Referring back to the texts quoted above concerning 'non-action', it will be readily understood, at least in principle if not in the modalities of its application, that the role of Taoism must be one of
invisible direction, dominating events rather than taking part in them directly, and all the more efficacious for not being clearly evident in exterior movements. As stated above, Taoism fulfills the function of the 'unmoved mover'; it does not seek to interfere in action, and is even entirely uninterested in it insofar as it sees in action a mere momentary and transitory modification, an infinitesimal element of the 'current of forms', a point on the circumference of the 'cosmic wheel'. Taoism, on the other hand, is like the pivot around which the wheel turns, or the norm by which its motion is regulated, precisely because it does not participate in that movement, and this is so even without express intervention on its part. Everything that is carried along in the revolutions of the wheel changes and passes; only that remains which, being united with the Principle, abides invariably at the center, immovable as the Principle itself; and the center, which nothing can affect in its undifferentiated unity, is the starting-point of the indefinite multitude of modifications that constitute universal manifestation.
Since the perfect sage is the only being actually to have reached the center, we should immediately add that what we have just said regarding his state and function applies in all strictness only to the supreme degree of the Taoist hierarchy; the other degrees are like intermediaries between the center and the outer world, and, just as the spokes of a wheel start from the hub and join it to the circumference, so these degrees assure the uninterrupted transmission of influence emanating from the invariable point where 'non-acting action' resides. The word 'influence', and not 'action', is the most suitable here, although one might also speak of an 'action of presence'; and even the lower degrees, though very far from the fullness of 'non-action', nevertheless still partake of it in a certain way. Besides, the means by which this influence is communicated necessarily escape those who only see the outside of things; they would be as unintelligible to the Western mind, and for the same reasons, as are the methods by which accession is gained to the various degrees of the hierarchy. It would thus be perfectly useless to dwell upon what are called 'temples without doors' and 'colleges without teachers', or upon the constitution of organizations that have none of the characteristics of a 'society' in the European sense of the word, and that have no definite outward form, and sometimes not even a
name, which nevertheless forge the most effective and the most indissoluble link that can exist between their members-all this would mean nothing to the Western imagination, since it is familiar with nothing that could furnish any valid term of comparison.
At the most exterior level, organizations no doubt exist that seem more comprehensible since they are engaged in the domain of action, although they may still be as secret as all the Western associations which, with more or less justification, claim to possess such a character. These organizations generally have only a temporary existence; formed for a specific purpose, they disappear without a trace as soon as their mission has been accomplished; in fact they are only emanations of other, more profound and permanent organizations from which they receive their real direction, even when their apparent leaders are entirely outside the Taoist hierarchy. Some of these leaders who played a considerable role in the distant past, have left in the popular mind memories that are expressed in legendary form; thus we have heard it said that in the past the masters of a particular secret organization would take a handful of pins and throw them on the ground, and that from them would spring so many armed soldiers. This is precisely the story of Cadmus sowing the teeth of the dragon; and these legends conceal beneath their ingenuous appearance a very real symbolic value which only the common man makes the mistake of taking literally.
It can often happen that the associations in question, or at least those that are most outward, stand in opposition to or even in conflict with one another. As a result superficial observers will not fail to object to what we have just said, and to conclude that unity of direction cannot exist in such conditions. These people will have forgotten only one thing, which is that the direction in question is 'beyond' the opposition they point to, and not in the domain in which this opposition occurs and where alone it is valid. If we had to reply to such objections, we would limit ourselves to recalling the Taoist teaching of the equivalence of the 'yes' and the 'no' in the primordial indistinction, and, as for putting this teaching into practice, we would simply refer them to the fable of the monkey-trainer.
We think we have said enough to make it understood that the real influence of Taoism can be extremely important, while yet remaining invisible and hidden; it is not only in China that things of this
sort exist, but there they seem to be in more constant use than anywhere else. It will also be understood that those who have some knowledge of the part played by this traditional organization must be wary of appearances and very reserved in assessing events such as those presently taking place in the Far East, which too often one judges by comparison with events in the West, thus placing them in a completely false light. Chinese civilization has weathered many other crises in the past, and it has always found its equilibrium again in the end; in fact, there is nothing to indicate that the present crisis is more serious than preceding ones, and even if it were, this would still be no reason for supposing that it must necessarily penetrate to that which is deepest and most essential in the tradition of the race, and which moreover a very small number of men would suffice to preserve intact in periods of trouble, for things of this order do not depend on the brute force of the multitude. Confucianism, which represents only the exterior aspect of the tradition, might even disappear should social conditions happen to change to the point of requiring the establishment of an entirely new form; but Taoism is beyond such contingencies. Let us not forget that the sage, according to the Taoist teachings we have cited, 'remains at rest at the center of the cosmic wheel,' whatever may be the circumstances, and that 'even the collapse of the universe would not cause him any emotion.'